


Dadless

by rory_the_faery



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Parent!lock, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:10:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_faery/pseuds/rory_the_faery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John comes home with some bad news for fourteen-year-old Hamish.  With Sherlock dead and John consumed by grief, Hamish feels more alone than ever and falls into depression.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Hamish," said John, looking at his adopted son sadly as he walked through the doorway. Hamish looked up from the couch at his father.

"Yeah? …Where's dad?" he asked, referring to his other father, Sherlock.

"He…" John's eyes became watery and he wiped tears from his cheek. Hamish leaned forward now. He noticed the streaks across his cheeks and his eyes were puffy and red. John had been crying earlier.

"Dad? Are you alright? W-what happened to Sherlock?"

"He-Sherlock…" He breathed shakily. Hamish stood and sat his father down in his armchair. Hamish sat down in Sherlock's chair.

"What is it? What's the matter?"

John took a deep breath and looked at his son's blue eyes. "Sherlock is dead."

"What?" asked Hamish. "No, he can't be…what are you talking about, he's not dead, I just saw him yesterday! He can't be dead!"

"He committed s-su…"

"No…" said Hamish. "No, that's not true, you're lying to me! Tell me where he is!" Be he recognised the anguish in John's face and knew it had to be true.

John watched his fourteen-year-old son's face shatter as he broke into tears. John closed his eyes and clenched his fists together.

They didn't speak for a few hours. Hamish didn't need to ask; he knew it had been because of Moriarty. John didn't tell Hamish what Sherlock had said to him over the phone. He didn't want his son to think that Sherlock had been a fake. John didn't want to think it either.

The next day it was all over the news. "SUICIDE OF A FAKE GENIUS" was the headline for all the papers.

John turned on the telly and flipped through the channels. He reached a local news channel right as they were discussing Sherlock's suicide. He turned it off and sat down at his desk. He opened up his laptop and clicked on the Google Chrome icon. A number of articles about Sherlock's suicide were on the web too. John closed his laptop.

Hamish just sat on the sofa, staring absently at the wall.

There was a knock on the door and Hamish got up to open it. Detective Inspector Lestrade stood in the doorway with Sergeant Donovan. They told Hamish how sorry they were for Hamish and John's loss and that is there was anything they needed not to hesitate to ask. Hamish gave a phony smile, said thank you, and closed the door. He walked over to the window and watched Lestrade and Donovan get in the police car and drive away. He stared out long after they'd gone and then turned back to the room.

"I'm gonna make tea, do you want any?" asked Hamish. John didn't answer. Hamish sighed and went in the kitchen. He turned on the kettle and got out a cup for himself. He frowned at the lack of a severed head in the fridge or eyeballs in the microwave. He did find an arm in the freezer. He smiled a bit and wondered what sort of experiment his father had needed it for. He closed the door to the freezer; he supposed he'd never know.

He poured himself a cup and brought it back into the sitting room. He sipped it quietly. Neither him, nor his father said a word.

Hamish stood and set his cup on the coffee table. He grabbed his coat and pulled it on.

"I'm going out. Be back in a bit."

John nodded at him slightly, watching him go. Hamish walked slowly down the stairs and stepped outside the flat. He hadn't left the flat in weeks; both of his fathers had insisted on him staying there until they'd delt with Moriarty, out of concern for Hamish's safety.

The cool breeze nipped at his face and cars raced by along the London streets. Hamish wasn't really sure where he was going. He supposed he'd have gone to Sherlock's grave if he'd been buried yet, but he hadn't had a funeral for him yet and Sherlock currently didn't have a grave.

He wandered around for a few hours though London. He walked by a group of 19-ish-year-olds.

"Aye look!" yelled one of them. "It's that fake nerd's kid! Hey there freak!"

Hamish gritted his teeth and kept walking.

"How's your freak father doing?" yelled one of the chavs. "Oh wait…he's dead, inn't he?" They all laughed and Hamish flipped them off in his peripheral.

"Aye," yelled one of then. "Get over here you little shit!"

Hamish closed his eyes for a moment and kept walking.

"I said get over here," growled one of them, grabbing Hamish by the collar. Hamish wriggled out of the older boy's grasp and took a step back.

The boy swung a punch at Hamish, knocking him off balance. Hamish stumbled back and ran off.

"Go throw yourself off a building like your freak of a dad!" yelled one of the boys.

Hamish ran about two blocks away and slipped into a library. He leaned against the wall to catch his breath, closing his eyes. The librarian looked at him, and he glanced through the glass doors at the street. He closed his eyes again and took a deep breath, and then wandered through the bookcases occasionally pulling a book off the shelf to read the first few pages, but nothing really struck him as interesting.

He sat down in the back corner of the library with a book of poems written by a girl about Hamish's age when her mother had died. He fell asleep while he was reading, his face nestled into the pages of the book.


	2. Chapter 2

_There was a boy who was all alone_

_And then two dads came_

_And took him in_

_They loved him_

_And protected him_

_And cared for him_

_The boy was happy_

_But one day one of the boy's fathers died_

_And the boy lost both his fathers._

Hamish crumpled the poem he'd written up into a ball and threw it in the rubbish bin. He stood in front of the mirror in the bathroom, attempting to tame his unruly brown curls. People used to tell him how much he looked like his father, and he and Sherlock would play along as if Hamish weren't adopted.

He gave up and just let the curls run wild over his green eyes. He sighed. Today was Sherlock's funeral.

John, Hamish and Mrs Hudson all crammed in the back of the cab. None of them spoke a word the whole way there.

The funeral was very small. Hamish's father hadn't had many friends. Uncle Mycroft, Molly, DI Lestrade, Sergeant Donovan, and Anderson were the only ones there. Hamish felt angry at Anderson and Donovan's presence. They had no business here. After all, they'd been the ones who started spreading that lie about his father. They were the ones who said he was a fake. Hamish felt his contempt for them boil up in him, hot, angry tears welling up in his eyes as he glared at them. He bit his lip and diverted his attention elsewhere.

He followed Mrs Hudson and his dad where they sat down beside Uncle Mycroft.

Hamish didn't pay much attention to the actual service. He just stared blankly at the coffin in the centre of the room. Lestrade went up and said some stuff about what a great man Sherlock had been and how 'eccentric and interesting' he was, and then the priest began doing whatever it was priests do; Hamish wasn't really sure.

The vacancy inside him was spreading outside him and everything seemed dry and empty like Hamish's heart. He wiped more salty tears from his cheeks, but they were quickly replaced by new ones.

After the service, they drove to the cemetery for Sherlock's burial. Mycroft had offered Hamish to ride with him in his car, since the back seat with John and Mrs Hudson was quite cramped. He gave Hamish a weak smile as they got in the back seat of the car. Hamish fought back tears the whole way to the cemetery.

Hamish looked at John while the priest said some prayers. He was several metres away from Hamish, staring blankly into space. His face was so emotionless and empty that is frightened Hamish. He'd never seen his dad like this before until Sherlock's death. Part of John had died along with Sherlock and Hamish wished he knew how to bring it back.

As Sherlock's coffin was being lowered into the ground, Hamish couldn't restrain himself anymore and broke into tears. He turned away and Mycroft wrapped his arms around Hamish protectively, letting him bury his face into Mycroft's chest. The more Hamish tried to stop crying, the harder he sobbed. It still wasn't enough. He wanted to scream and run and break something and punch and kick and thrash and let it all out, but instead he just cried and cried into his uncle's jacket.

He loved his uncle, but he didn't want his arms around him right now. Not his. He wanted John's. He wanted his dad to hold him and tell him it would be okay. He wanted John to let him cry into his coat. But John just stood there, consumed with grief.

_And the boy lost both of his fathers._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I switched to first person, present tense for this chapter. It switches back to 3rd person at the end. Trigger warning: self harm.

_I'm sorry_

I scratch the words into the table with a letter opener. I'm not sure what I'm apologising for.

Sorry Sherlock killed himself. Sorry I wasn't able to stop him. Sorry John is falling apart. Sorry I don't know how to help him.

My dad's been up in his room all day. He rarely comes down anymore. He hardly eats, except when I bring it up to his room.

I look at my wrists. Faded scars from many years ago, so faint that only I can see them. I stopped cutting after John and Sherlock adopted me two years ago.

I glance at the letter opener in my hands. The blade whispers of sweet remedies for my suffering, if I only just drag it across my skin. Just like before.

I hold the blade up to the light that shines through from the window and watch the light beams reflect off its surface.

I press the cold metal against my skin, whispers telling me just to slide it across my wrist. I push more firmly into my skin and feel a familiar sting that's like an old friend to me. Ruby drops of blood appear, dotting along the slice I've made. I lift the blade and pull the it across my wrist again slowly, savouring the pain that eases my mind.

 _Once more_ , the blade whispers.

"Just once more," I breathe, slashing my wrist a third time.

But I've started and now I can't make myself stop. _A fourth, a fifth._

The pain numbs my mind. _A sixth, a seventh._

It fills the emptiness with a new feeling. _Thirteen, fourteen._

I don't want to stop. _Twenty, twenty-one._

Rubies drip from the blade onto the coffee table. _Twenty-five, twenty-six._

 _Press a bit deeper_ , whispers the blade. _I can make it all go away. Everything. No more pain, no more sorrow. Forever._

That snaps me out of it.

The blade falls out of my hand and hits the floor. I look at my wrist, horrified by what I've done. Blood flows from my wrist onto the floor.

Suddenly I hear footsteps making their way down the stairs. Panic floods me. I grab some napkins and try to quickly clean up the blood that stains the coffee table and the floor. I stash the letter opener in my pocket and pull on my sweatshirt to hide my wrist.

My dad walks down the stairs into the living room. He looks at me strangely. I hold my bleeding wrist in my other hand and stand up to leave.

John stares at the coffee table for a moment and I hope he hasn't noticed the blood. I didn't do a very thorough job of cleaning it.

"Hamish," John says softly. I don't turn around. "You haven't seen my letter opener, have you?" he asks. I don't answer. He knows.

"Hamish," he says still softly, but a bit more firmly. I pull the letter opener out of my pocket and look at the red stains across the silver blade. Without turning around, I hand it to him. "Hamish, sit down. Let me see your wrist."

I sit down on the sofa and roll up my sleeve, tears building up in my eyes.

"Jesus…" he whispers. He looks at me sadly. "Why?" 

I open my mouth to speak, but instead, burst into tears.

"It's…all my fault…" I cry into his shoulder. "Sh-Sherlock's dead…and you're broken and I don't…know how to fix… you…"

"It's not your fault." John looks at him, tears now built up in his own eyes. In all his grief from Sherlock's death he'd almost completely forgotten about Hamish. He'd never once asked Hamish if he was okay, or if he needed to talk. In fact, this was the first time he'd held Hamish since Sherlock's death.

"Oh God…" said John quietly. "I'm so sorry, Hamish," he said, squeezing him slightly. "I'm so so sorry. I love you." He kissed the top of Hamish's head. He let go of Hamish for a moment. "Come on, first aid kit's in the bathroom. Let's go get you cleaned up, alright?" They stood and John hugged Hamish again.


End file.
